“You stopped hitting him.”

“Exactly, mam. I sent in Faroni as heartbait. In his pain he mistook her for a woman named Kindalana.”

“Kindalana. Yes.” Maroyad exhaled a jet of mint smoke. “The Admiralty’s aware of her.”

“Can you tell me anything, mam?”

“She’s an Oriati Federal Prince who does charity work in Falcrest. The woman behind the Great Embrace campaign—you know it?”

Federal Princes were the Mbo’s royalty: a child who, corrupted by years of groveling courtiers and favorable treatment, was then set loose to run the Mbo’s affairs as their whims dictated. Aminata hated them. “Great Embrace, yes. That’s the one where the Mbo surrenders to Falcrest and joins the Republic?” Ridiculous, of course: like pouring a gallon of mud into a pint of cream.

“Yes. We’ve put in a request with the Morrow Ministry for their intelligence on her.” She took another drag on the cigarette. Only then, watching her slow considered motions, did Aminata realize the admiral was tense as an anchorline. “But given Parliament’s distaste for our fine navy, and the way the Morrow Ministry likes to eat Parliament’s cunt on hope of credit, I think the Kindalana file will be a long time coming.”

“Perhaps the Prince Kindalana funded Abdumasi Abd’s attack fleet?” Aminata suggested, hopefully.

Rear Admiral Maroyad stared at her, silent and unreadable.

“Perhaps the Prince,” Aminata said, fumbling now, “thought she could curry our favor with her charity work, as a cover for secret movements against us?”

“Put out your hand,” the rear admiral said.

“Mam?”

“Take your glove off and give me your hand.”

Aminata obeyed, thinking, sourly, that she was probably not going to get her nails inspected.

Rear Admiral Maroyad stubbed her cigarette out on the web of Aminata’s left hand. The mint sizzled on her skin. Aminata bit her cheeks and did not even hiss. Pain, huh? Come on in. Make yourself at home. I’m a navy tunk, I bleed cold brine and I stitch up my soggy cuts with fishing line. Come on in.

“I’m not doing this to be a bitch,” Maroyad said, conversationally, “although I do like that word, bitch, a woman who’s not approved of: it has such wonderful eugenic overtones. I never had kids. Navy women don’t, usually. You’ve figured that out, I’m sure.”

Aminata made an interested hm. Her eyes tried to well up. She forbade it.

“I just want you to remember, every time you look at this scar”—she screwed the cigarette back and forth—“that if you do succeed in identifying Abdumasi Abd’s backers, and you tell anyone outside the navy, you’re going to fuck us all.”

“Mam?” she croaked.

“What do you think happens,” Maroyad said, flicking the cigarette into a planter across the room, “if Parliament finds out that some Prince or griot circle or perverse tunk conspiracy was behind that ‘pirate’ attack on Aurdwynn?”